


Torn Apart

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Mentions of past drug use, Prostitute Sherlock, Prostitute!Lock, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sadism, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 15:18:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1823110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prostitute and drug addict, Sherlock Holmes unknowingly finds himself caught in the clutches of Jim Moriarty.<br/>Jim never did know how to play nicely with his toys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Torn Apart

I heard, from Mike, that you may require my services. SH (27)

 

Perhaps JM

 

And what, exactly, are you looking for? SH

 

Sexual intercourse. The particulars of which will require your complete submission. JM

 

Of course. I understand. SH

  
A single session, or the whole evening? SH

 

I should think the whole evening. I suggest you arrive ready to work for the entire duration. JM

 

I assume I should be prepared for kinks, as well? SH

 

This one does catch on quickly. You will be clean and shaved in the groin and the rear. do be prepared for an amount of pain. All yours, of course. JM

 

It's going to cost you. SH

 

I'm quite willing to pay. JM

 

[delayed] Six-hundred and fifty for the evening, one hundred for kinks, another hundred for pain, and fifty for a fresh shave. SH

  
That's nine-hundred quid, altogether. Up front. Before we begin. SH

 

1000 pounds have been transferred to your personal account. JM

 

[delayed] Yes. I see that. SH

  
And... what time would you like me? SH

 

Seven, precisely. You should have the address already. JM

 

I do. I'll see you at seven. Sir. SH

 

I think you'll find "Master" to be a more appropriate address. JM

 

Yes, master. SH

 

—

 

He was uneasy. And, high or not, Sherlock Holmes was rarely uneasy. He's had clients that had intended to intimidate him before, but his intimidation was not easily won. Not normally, anyway. This client — JM, by is initials, if they were real at all -- struck an unfamiliar chord within Sherlock's chest, filling him with ice-cold panic, which manifested itself physically in the slight tremor of his hands. He peered down at his mobile, suddenly opening the settings. Settings, location, GPS locator. On. Just in case. He hit the home key, numbly handing the cabbie his fee and staring up at the address he had been given. 

  
[19:00] I'm here. Care to let me in? SH

 

The door is unlocked. Walk into the parlour and set your phone on the table. JM

 

Sit down. JM

 

 

He stared down at the instructions, slowly looking up at the door once more. He advanced, curled his fingers around the knob, and slipped inside -- all in silence. A parlour. Not lavish, but expensively decorated. Tasteful. Impeccable, even. Sherlock laid his mobile down on the table and lowered himself carefully onto the sofa.

 

James Moriarty walked down the hall towards the parlour, wearing an impeccable and expensive suit. His shoes made sharp noises on the floors, growing louder by intention. His prior research had described this Sherlock Holmes as a proud man, a drug addicted prostitute yes, but proud nevertheless. James would have fun with this one. He entered the parlour, face blank, and immediately went to the table and picked up Sherlock's phone, not even looking at the man. He only then, with the phone in hand, looked the other man in the eye. After a moment of what he knew to be a thoroughly intimidating stare he dropped the phone to the floor and stamped it into pieces, never breaking eye contact and saying nothing. He smiled at Sherlock.

 

He kept his eyes forward despite the sharp tap of Italian soles on hard wood, slowly and importantly approaching him. Only once he was within eye-line did Sherlock's gaze -- pin-prick pupils, positively drowning in a sea of silvery blue -- begin to follow. He watched the man, as well dressed as his parlour was, lift his mobile as though to survey it, as though to check it for security. But he didn't. He circumnavigated the issue, entirely. Sherlock stiffened as his mobile smashed to the floor, but otherwise remained unshaken, his eye contact unbroken. "I assume that the extra hundred pounds was for a replacement, master?" he said sharply.

 

His smile turned to something darker, more predatory. His eyes raked over Sherlock with the intensity of gunfire and he spoke with a smooth, lilting, and sinister voice; "I am unconcerned with how you spend my money. I merely wanted to see how you would react to losing your final avenue of escape. I thought you understood that your undivided attention would be required for this evening. I can't have you wandering, now can't I?" He began walking as he said this, circling around to the back of the sofa.

 

His hands were then laid on Sherlock's shoulders like iron bars, promising no escape.

 

Sherlock held his gaze firmly, his pride and stubbornness working in tandem to maintain his facade of dignity. His last avenue of escape. His only solace was that, should he end up close to death, his brother _might_ have seen the momentary blip on that bloody radar of his. Because, undoubtedly, it was gone, now. Unless the mobile maintained function, which Sherlock sorely doubted. His eyes flickered downward as his client swept behind him. Black screen. No function. He swallowed uncharacteristically thickly in response to the hands on the shoulders of his Belstaff. He turned his head to look up at the man. "Shall we begin, then, Master?"

 

James stood up, releasing Sherlock and coming around to stand in front of the other man. "Stand up." Sherlock complied, trying not to show any hesitation or fear and doing an near perfect job of it; _near perfect_ . James stepped closer, looked Sherlock, once again, deeply in the eyes with a hard look. He surveyed the man's face- pale and unbroken, like marble, and with eyes like gemstones. James was also acutely aware of all the ways that the man was not a statue, of the soft weaknesses of his flesh that the man seemed to go to such pains to hide, of the sounds of his beating heart, the slight darkness in the hollows of his cheekbones, the fear beneath the color of his eyes. His voice was soft and quiet. "You will go into the bedroom at the end of the hallway, strip, and then lie face down on the bed. You will make no sound."

 

Sherlock Holmes spent a great deal of his time observing people -- but this time, the tables were turned. His client had placed _him_ under the same metaphorical microscope under which Sherlock placed the world, and the result was -- a little more unsettling than he cared to admit. But he remained firm, standing nearly a full head taller than his client, his eyes stubbornly forward. At the command, he gave a curt nod of understanding (but, in compliance with the order, did not speak), and turned. The hall was long, ominous, filled with a palpable sense of foreboding, but he went on. Sherlock undressed in complete silence, folding his clothing -- Belstaff, button-down, vest, jeans, pants, socks, and shoes -- neatly upon the chair in the corner of the room. Feeling considerably more exposed than he normally did when nude, Sherlock dropped carefully onto his knees on the bed and laid flat on his stomach.  
  
Jim decided to wait a full ten minutes before attending to the man waiting in his bed. While he waited (and Sherlock's anxiety built, he was sure ) he contemplated his options -- when he went into that bedroom he could either start in with aggression, literally pounding the man into submission, or go much slower, showing tenderness with the man at first then employing an a total reversal. He quickly decided on the second; Sherlock would already be on guard and while Jim was sure that he could not, in the span of one night, cause the man to truly lower his defenses he did know that the element of surprise was on his side. The ten minutes having elapsed, Jim stood promptly and silently padded down the hall, his steps almost feline in their lightness and secrecy. Opening the bedroom door caused the first noise Sherlock would hear and after entering Jim stood at the foot of the bed, eyes roving over the delicious expanse of skin presented to him. It was not unblemished, though, the marks of a needle would surely show on the other side of his arms and his body bore the occasional mark or scar. Nothing, however, could mask the tension that stretched the sinuous muscles in Sherlocks body and the sight of his fear, laid out for him to see so plainly lit a fire in Jim Moriarty. He liked this man.

 

He didn't move a bloody muscle. He didn't dare. For ten full minutes -- Sherlock had passively counted the seconds -- he laid there, straining his ears in the silence for any reprieve. A sigh. A breath. The shift of fabric against fabric. But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing, for ten whole minutes. He heard him moving, in near silence, through the hollow corridor and toward the bedroom. Had he not been on high alert, Sherlock never would have heard him at all. His body involuntarily tensed as the bedroom door clicked open. He pressed his lips into a thin line and pressed his eyes shut. 'You will make no sound,' the man had said, and Sherlock complied. He could quite literally feel those dark, menacing eyes raking over his body, sending a sudden, involuntary tremor through him.

 

"You're beautiful," Jim said, plainly, "So afraid, and so very beautiful." He licked his finger and trailed it slowly down Sherlock's spine, the wet and the cold raising goosebumps on the his back. Jim then stepped away to remove his jacket, tie, shoes, socks, and the rest of his well tailored clothing until he was wearing only in his pants and shirt. It wouldn't do to be naked in front of Sherlock just yet. The clothes were powerful while Sherlock still felt so vulnerable being so naked. He moved to the bed and straddled Sherlock before continuing his caresses, reaching down to Sherlock's firm buttocks, coming near, but never touching, the entrance between.

 

He had never been particularly fond of his profession. But this, Sherlock actually, and actively, _hated_. His body responded fearfully, completely without his consent. His hair stood on end and tugged his skin along with it, and his entire body erupted in gooseflesh. He shivered again, his expression -- thankfully hidden within the duvet -- crinkling with visible discomfort. He listened in silence as the man shed himself of his extraneous clothing, not unlike a snake shedding its outer skin. Sherlock tensed as his client crawled on top of him, gripping him surprisingly gently. He released a long, slow, trembling sigh into the duvet.

 

Moriarty was slightly surprised to hear the sigh part Sherlock's lips. He smirked, the facial expression practically audible considering Sherlocks level of perception. Moriarty cursed the muffling of the duvet; he wanted to hear those noises again unobscured, wanted to see the fury and disgust present on Sherlock's face as he forced them from him. He flipped Sherlock over roughly and then brought himself down for a bruising kiss to Sherlock's lips. Sherlock, unfortunately, resisted. He submitted far too quickly, gave in because that, he thought, would appease Moriarty fastest. He was wrong. Moriarty pulled out of the kiss and hovered his face a few centimeters over Sherlock's, gauging his eyes. Then, he gave a mad glare, grinning wide as he sat up and slapped Sherlock across the face -hard- and went back in for another kiss, pleased with the indignation of the man beneath him.

 

It was the first time he'd seen him since the parlour, since he had thrown his mobile - his only means of communication, and therefore his only means of escape - to the floor and crushed it beneath his heel. Sherlock gasped, despite himself, as his client, whose name he still did not know, flipped him suddenly and roughly onto his back. There was something wild in his eyes, something sinister. He kissed him just as roughly as he had flipped him. Initially, he resisted, but quickly gave in. Jay Em, however, seemed unsatisfied. He stared down at him for a long moment, until a sudden palm came down across Sherlock's face. Harder than he could have anticipated. He grunted, his head falling to the side with the force, but he hardly had time to look up at him again before the man's lips found his again. Sherlock didn't dare resist him a second time, but instead offered as much enthusiasm as he could muster -- lips, and tongues, and teeth searching, nipping, playing, exploring, even teasing.

 

Moriarty was growing bored with this kissing, so he allowed is hands to begin to rove over Sherlock, this time without the gentleness of before. Now, they moved with force and command, grasping and clutching, leaving trails with his nails as he mapped the contours of every muscle in Sherlock's torso. It was his and he was marking it, the intent clear. He ground his fabric clad groin into Sherlock's exposed and growing hard member, achieving a shamefully positive response. Now, he stood and got off the bed so that Sherlock could watch with barely hidden fear as he undressed completely, cock standing proud and erect before him at an impressive size. Sherlock's own cock was hard, twitching in time to his racing heartbeat. The guarded look to Sherlock's eyes was slipping and he began to resemble an animal, caught quite obviously in the crosshair of a hunter.

 

Not many of his clients made much of an effort to be particularly gentle, but very few went out of their way to actually _hurt_ him. Fingernails, clipped short but still capable of minimal damage, dragged themselves through his skin, leaving reddened, angry welts in their wake. But they were far from the worst markers that Sherlock would receive tonight, of that, he was absolutely certain. A low, involuntary moan escaped his lips as pelvis met pelvis -- one clothed and one bare, but both aching for friction. And then, he was gone. Sherlock sat up, watching with wide eyes as the man finished undressing himself. His eyes fluttered downward, to the more-than-respectably sized cock he had unleashed, then back up to his face. He could feel the fear flash across his expression, and for just a moment, he could have sworn he saw the other man smirk at him. Sherlock swiped his tongue nervously between his lips.

 

Moriarty was luxuriating in the spotlight of his own creation around the bed, moving slowly and with ease. It wasn't often that he had someone in his bed that was able of paying such keen attention at a time like this. Where many might turn off their minds completely Sherlock was far too conscious, far too clever to let go of the fear of the experience. Sherlocks eyes, even as they were opened by fear, were searching, analyzing, concluding exactly how deeply the darkness that lurked behind Jim's eyes went. Looking away from Sherlock, Jim walked back around the bed, getting on and flipping Sherlock back onto his front, the smoothness of the fine linens rubbing against his cock almost spitefully. Sherlock barely had time to recall that he hand't seen Jim grab a lubricant before his cheeks were spread roughly and his mind flooded with burning, searing pain as Moriarty slammed into him dry. He bit his cheek, drawing hot, salty blood, as he tried not to scream but a shriek tore through anyway and the sound of a low chuckle escaping Moriarty could be heard, adding a demented edge to the cacophony of sound escaping Sherlock as Moriarty began to pound into him.

 

He shrieked. For the first time since his arrival, Sherlock's fears were answered. A generous cock forced its way up his colon without the customary preparation, without any assistance. No lubricant, no saliva, no sexual fluids, and no condom. There wasn't even a reprieve, no period in which Sherlock could grown accustomed to the length and girth filling him, practically tearing him apart. The man fucked him -- hard, rough, and dry -- and with every thrust, Sherlock let out a desperate, helpless sound. Cries, whimpers, whines. And the git laughed. Sherlock bore down on whatever he could as he accepted his pounding -- first, the inside of his cheek, then his bottom lip, and finally, when he mouth tasted of little more than blood, his thumb. "Fuck," he grunted. " _Fuck_. Please."

 

Moriarty was in his element now, eyes burning with malicious glee, hands like vices on Sherlock's biceps, leaving dark purple bruises. His skin was flushed with the abandon of causing pain. Hearing the grunts and pleas coming from Sherlock mouth, garbled by the blood coming out of the bites on his cheek in tongue, and hearing the rasping sound of his cock fucking into the dry space of Sherlock's hole slowly turn into a lewd squelching as he tore too far and still more blood lubricated the channel ironically possessed him, stroked the most dangerous parts of his monstrous heart. He bent down to where blood was leaking from Sherlock's open mouth, his head turned to the side in pain, and licked and tasted the heat and iron born of agony. "You're so good," he replied. "Didn't I say that this would hurt, dear?"

 

There was no mercy. None. Sherlock could feel the dark bruises appearing on his arms, feel his body tear beneath Jim's. No one had ever torn him. Not like this. And even then, the man didn't stop. He carried on with renewed fervour, fucking him ruthlessly in the mattress despite his desperate, wordless pleas. The severity of his straights were in full-focus. This man, if he kept this up, could cause very serious, and perhaps irreparable injury. And he was well on his way to doing so, if the sudden lubrication slicking him was any indication. Blood. It had to be. That was all it could have been. The man licked his mouth, and Sherlock promptly turned his head away, whimpering into the sheets.

 

This was how Moriarty continued for an indeterminable amount of minutes, fucking Sherlock hard and fast around the sound of his blood and his screams, listening as they faded into whimpers, holding on to bruises that were slipping between colors, each more garish than the last, never slowing or stopping until he had finished and spent himself into the torn mass that was Sherlock's anal passage. Moriarty placed a final, shockingly tender, kiss on the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled out, the fluid seeping from Sherlock mixed into a fetid pink. He got off the bed, spared a final glance at the rapidly losing conscious Sherlock and turned to the bathroom, a smirk on his face. The last thing Sherlock saw was James Moriarty turning away from his broken and abused body and smiling before sweet unconsciousness took him

 

—

 

All he knew was pain. His entire body ached, _burned_ , and nothing more so than his colon. He was only vaguely aware of what had happened, hovering somewhere between consciousness and oblivion. He peeled his eyes slowly open. With vision came a splash of awareness -- pain intensified, the scent of blood and sex filled and overwhelmed his nostrils, and horrific visions of the previous evening's _festivities_ jumped to the forefront of his mind. He was still in the house, still collapsed on the bed, broken, bleeding. He pushed himself, weakly and terribly painfully, up with his arms, but had nowhere to go from there. He collapsed again, groaning. He needed help. He needed more than just help. He needed medical assistance. He had no idea how much blood he had lost over the course of the evening -- he didn't know what time it was, but he knew he had to get out. With a loud, raucous groan between gritted teeth, Sherlock pushed himself up again. He needed to leave. Now.

 

Getting out of the bed was an ordeal. Walking was nearly impossible but somehow he managed to limp towards his clothes. Trying to reclaim some of his modesty, he reached for the pants. Pulling them on was nearly too much for him but he had to persevere. There was no room for anything else but the task at hand— leg in the pant; pull up; bending hurts; shirt; pain; step; pain; make it to the door of the room; pain; pain; pain; hallway; pain; look into the parlour; stop. Jim Moriarty was seated on the sofa, in the same spot as Sherlock had sat last night. He smiled again, that cruel, dark smile and it was all Sherlock could do not to pass out again from fear. He could not do that though, he could not be here, in this flat. He made his way to the door, staggering out to the sound of Moriarty laughing. The same laugh that he had laughed as he-- no, he would not think of it.

 

Sherlock didn't say a word. He doubted he could have, if he had wanted to. All he could manage now was to clutch the clothing that he hadn't managed to put on, including his button-down, his shoes, his trousers -- God, he'd managed to put on less than he was carrying -- and hobble helplessly to the door. He didn't bother with his mobile, it was long gone. He didn't bother addressing his client, who appeared amused by his plight. He just left, his body bruised, torn, and broken. Sherlock hailed a cab with ease, but settling himself inside was a different matter. He tossed his clothing inside and laid down, face first, across the seat. "Chelsea and Westminster Hospital," he managed. "As fast as you can.”

—

 

Mycroft Holmes was at the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital at the bedside of his dying? brother. He said nothing, neither did Sherlock. Sherlock couldn't speak, he could hardly breathe; somebody had caused this. Complex sentences escaped Mycroft at this point. Something would have to be done, both for Sherlock and to the person who had done this. He turned away and called one of his people-"Follow my brother's movements from last night. Locate and apprehend whoever he had interacted with." This was paltry, the incident had already happened and there was nothing he could do to help Sherlock now.

 

The morphine drip had him flying high, high above the clouds, but even that just barely took the edge off. Emergency surgery had been performed to repair a perforated colon and a torn sphincter. Sherlock was set up with a temporary colostomy bag in the meantime, while he healed, and placed upon broad-spectrum antibiotics for the sepsis that had resulted from his injury. He was touch-and-go, neither dying nor living, but rather waiting to see whether or not he would survive his ordeal. He glanced up at his brother weakly. Even if he'd been able to draw complete sentences, Sherlock didn't know the man's name. JM. That was all he knew, and he had no way of knowing whether or not the initials had been falsified. He gave a soft groan, rolling his head uselessly to the side and squeezing his eyes shut.

 

The surveillance report lay heavily beside Sherlock’s medical report on Mycroft’s desk. After Sherlock had stabilized and Mycroft was certain was certain that he would make it to the next day Mycroft had left for his office on a warpath. He had read the medical report— perforated colon, torn sphincter, multiple scratches on his torso, mottled bruises of sickly purple and yellow covering his arms, bites on his cheek and tongue from trying not to scream. There was no room to react to that report, to feel any of the pain or guilt or anger that it brought. The second report he could deal with now, he had a record of everywhere Sherlock had gone and everyone who had interacted with him. Mycroft would destroy them, blindly and totally, absolutely. It would be the only thing for his guilt— guilt at this happening to Sherlock, his brother who he should have protected, should have kept away from the drugs, should have stopped him from resorting to being a common whore, should have helped-Why _didn’t Sherlock let him help._  

Mycroft opened the file, read, and then, as he reached the last page where the name of the man who owned the flat, the man who had done this, stopped. He knew that name, had heard it whispered in interrogation rooms and from sources that monitored the darkest corners of the criminal underground. Mycroft realized who exactly he was up against, exactly how much more complicated this made things. For the first time he felt true fear pool in his stomach as he contemplated how he would ever best James Moriarty. Then again, he didn’t doubt that his brother wouldn’t want this revenge for himself. He welcomed Sherlock to but even then he knew that Sherlock would have the full support of Mycroft Holmes behind him, knowingly or not. He hoped that then it would make all the difference.


End file.
